Scrapbook
by Lupa of the Wolves
Summary: His reminisce was joyful, but sad. It was what he had, and then lost. From his birth to his parent's deaths, a scrapbook told the story behind it all. Harry, victorious over the Dark Lord, visits Godric's Hollow once more, and looks through something. His scrapbook. One-shot.


Harry didn't want to open it, who would, the pain and sorrow it mirrored inside of him.

"You owe it to yourself and your parents," He told himself.

Harry's breath hitched in his throat as he opened the book of broken memories. He should be thirty, with his old parents and children as they got together. What he was, instead, was seventeen, alone and depressed, no children. No family. Nothing.

Ginny, the love of his well-earned life, he wanted her to be there. He wanted to show her it, smile and tell her, "And this must have been when..." But no. The Weasleys were in Egypt, again, far from here. He was alone, in the remains of his late parent's home. He looked at the first page and first picture.

_Harry James Potter, proud son of Lily Evans-Potter and James Potter was born 31 July, 1980._

There was a picture of a little baby boy staring at the camera with longing, happy green eyes. Wrapped in a blue blanket, in his redhead mother's arms, a black-haired hazel-eyed man standing proud next to them. It brought a new smile to the teenager's face.

_A disagreement with Harry and peas went on today, this is one mess that even magic would have trouble cleaning._

A picture of a wailing baby Harry with peas all over the floors of the room, it's white walls stained in mush.

_Remus stopped by, he said hello to Harry. Then Sirius came and things got a bit interesting..._

Sirius was carefree, laughing, no darkness in his eyes. Little Harry was in his lap while he was sitting himself on top of a less-than-happy werewolf. And that picture brought tears to Harry's eyes. His godfather and uncle-like-figure, carefree, happy without his tormentors, the dementors and curse of lycanthropy.

_Harry is a strong wizard, his first piece of accidental magic- turning Sirius' hair pink after he called Snuggles 'boring'._

A pouting Sirius with hot-pink hair shown in the picture. Underneath was a smaller note.

_Padfoot says sorry to Snuggles._

Harry felt the tears brim his eyes and he told himself to get a grip. He wondered if he even had Snuggles left or if the ruins tore it.

_It's been six months now, the attacks of war are still coming. We are safe, for now._

Fire, dark, smoke. That was this picture. A local village, muggles of course, on fire and Lily crying silently with her baby Harry in her arms. The sign said, "Cokeworth". Where Harry's own mother grew up.

_Harry's too young to understand this._

It said under. Harry smiled tearfully, yet here he was, seventeen. Defeater of Lord Voldemort, at the price of innocent lives.

_We had to use the Findelius Charm to conceal ourselves, a great prophecy is rising and poor Harry is caught dead in the middle of it. I am ashamed to say that I hope it is Alice's child instead of mine._

Neville and Harry, still babies, were sitting on a floor together. Each with a stuffed bear, almost like they were having an intense bear-to-bear discussion on flowers. Harry wanted to do that again, sit with even the grown up Neville, with a bear named after its species or texture or hue and talk about flowers. Neville would probably have liked that too.

_Padfoot is more than what he seems, know that, holding off. Wormtail is now in charge, he is unpredictable in this. He is unlikely to the enemy. I cannot give anything else away._

In this picture, it was simply the marauders in their school days. Harry was all in tears, not daring to turn the last page of the scrapbook in his battle-worn hands. He loathed Peter now, loathed once more on the rat that ripped his happiness away from him.

_Fidelity isn't all it seems,_ the last caption read, _but love is more than words._

Harry, little baby at the time of the moment Harry, in his mother's fleeing arms. Up the stairs they went. In the bedroom they ran. The door is blasted down, it falls to the ground. A man enters, he is pale, he is death. Black robes billow around him and his eyes looked like they possessed all damnation. Green light, it flew and filled the little square of picture. The scrapbook has ended, and so Harry put it in his to-go trunk. It would be safe there.

"I love you more than words." Harry, the one now, told his parents whom he knew somehow could hear him. He slumped against the dark wood of the house in Godric's Hollow, his parents. Loving they kept a scrapbook for him, from his life to their death. He wasn't afraid of crying, not for love.

James, Lily, Sirius, Peter, Remus. Dead. The two lovers, the free-spirit once of a man. The traitorous rat and the werewolf ripped from love so soon. They were all (save Peter) loved dearly by him. And he was loved by them too. He knew it. Harry Potter was content with memories for now. Even if those memories came from a scrapbook.

* * *

**I do not own Harry Potter.**

**The story is the scrapbook of Lily Potter with her child, Harry. It's Harry's reactions to some picture and the captions and show from his birth to his death. It was very sad to write actually, not crying level though (for me anyway), but if you _read_ it while listening to Davy Jones Music Box (it's on Youtube) from Pirates of the Caribbean, you might cry. I have yet to do that though. I hoped you liked it anyway and please share your thoughts, whether good or bad.**

**I'm new and this is my first story. I probably will write for Harry Potter, Rise of the Guardians, The Fault In Our Stars and Percy Jackson, mostly one shots. That's all I want to share and all I have to say.**

***Lupa of the Wolves**


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